“And men?” At nineteen, I knew I was stronger than my father, but he’d purposely not allowed me to fight, worried that it would ruin my perfection. And since my perfection held people at arm’s length, since they feared the rumors were true, that I was touched by immortality, that kept him powerful. “Am I to have any of them?”
His face turned a splotchy red. I could hear his disgusting thoughts as clear as day; he warred within himself, unable to control the fact that even his own blood called for me.
Because of what I was.
Perfection.
My blood promised him everything.
He jerked his attention away from me and onto my mother. “I will ask you once and for all, who sired him?”
She smirked, “And I’ve always answered the same, have I not, your grace? He is of immortal blood. A man with black and red hair and shining armor of gold lay with me. He was beautiful, he tasted like cider, and when we joined, it was the most—”
He slapped her across the face sending her body against one of the golden walls.
“Mother.” I ran to her, but she held up a shaky hand.
Frowning, I stopped. Why did she never want me to touch her?
And then, I allowed myself to hear her thoughts of jealousy.
Of her own son.
Of my beauty and how hers paled in comparison.
Love.
I wondered often, what that word meant as I glanced back at the slave girl. Was it this feeling of pain in my chest whenever I thought of the life that had been stolen from her? Or was it more? It had to be more or men would not fight wars.
“Alexander.” My father seldom spoke my name aloud, but when he did, he uttered it as though he were conjuring spirits. Sometimes, it felt like he was, as though I were evil — like there was something brewing beneath the surface of my skin, burning, clawing to break free. My greatest fear was that he was right and one day, I’d reach my full power and let it. “Kill her.”
“What?” I jerked back as my entire body shook with rage. “I will do no such thing.”
“Hah!” My father gave a thunderous laugh. “Do you think she cares for you? She’s a selfish bitch, who would have strangled you as a babe had I not saved your life… oh, do you not know? Your own mother tried smothering you with a pillow when you were two months old. She knew it was getting impossible to hide your beauty from me, she knew I would discover her treachery. But then she realized how transfixed people were in your presence and used you as a pawn.” He took a breath. “Kill her, or I kill you.”
I had never been told I was immortal. I simply knew it. Like I knew how to walk, inhale, exhale. I knew I was different, just like I knew I was hated for it.
But I didn’t want to test the knowledge. The last thing I needed was to test the gods or worse, anger them.
So I did nothing.
I never did anything.
“Alexander.” My father spoke my name like a curse, his voice low and venomous. “Kill her now.”
“You want her dead?” I started walking away. “You do it.”
Love.
What was love?
I didn’t feel the blade enter my body, but I did see it poking out
through my stomach in all its metallic shining glory.
“Valeria!” My father shouted in outrage.
“Die, you demon!” my mother hissed in my ear, jerking the knife from my stomach while simultaneously shoving me to the ground.